


hadn't he known?

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied Genocide, M/M, Planet Destruction, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: The Grandmaster dies, and Loki is alone.





	hadn't he known?

**Author's Note:**

> This is horrible!
> 
> Written for the best Grandmaster anybody could ask for over at [ofsmokeandsmiles](https://ofsmokeandsmiles.tumblr.com), originally written on my [Loki RP blog.](http://mystarsforanempire.tumblr.com/post/173526906948/hadnt-he-known)

Elders are not supposed to die.

The truth plays like a litany in Loki’s head, bouncing off the walls of his tired, aching skull, and he feels it like ash upon his tongue, feels it like chains around his tired, tired neck. Loki stands alone in the wreckage of Sakaar, where all has been _burned_ beneath his dreadful touch. Loki had raged when first he had realised it was not some joke, some prank or practical joke at his expense, when he had realised the body before him ( _so small! So limp!_ ) was truly growing cold, and he had clutched at it, _it_ , it, because _he_ was gone.

And it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, it isn’t **FAIR**. Why should he lose more? Hasn’t he lost enough? Finally, _finally_ , hasn’t Loki lost enough? His wife, murdered! His children, stolen, or dead! And Sigyn, _dearest Sigyn_ , on the other end of the universe, because how can you bare to look at somebody who bears the features of your dead son, his eyes, his mouth, his golden hair?

And the corpse of En Dwi Gast had grown so cold in Loki’s arms, as cold as Loki himself, and he had been but a shell, empty, _empty_ , much like Loki himself.

His rage had been incalculable. His rage had been sudden, and burning, and scathing: flames had ripped from his very heart with all the power of a nuclear bomb, and around him every building, every garden, every hut and orgy-goer and bottle of too-sweet wine had been turned to ashes and dust.

It has been days, weeks, _months_ , and he feels the pain cleaving him open shall never end! ( ~~It has scarcely been hours~~.) And here Loki sits, alone, upon his knees in the dust, and he begins to sob. The rage has done nothing to soothe the desperate agony within him, and so he fists his hands in the golden and blue fabric of the Grandmaster’s robes, so tightly his fingers nearly tear the silk, and he sounds come ragged and wretched and ugly from his marble throat, and tears are wet upon his face as he buries his face against the chest of the cold, growing colder, En Dwi Gast.

Even the _scent_ of him is fading, even that free-flowing energy that had come from the very beginnings of the universe, and _Elders aren’t supposed to die_.

What is the point of growing so old, only to die when Loki _wants_ him?

What is the point of it? What is the point of anything? Why has Loki lived so long, and seen so much die, and not died himself? Hasn’t he tried? Hasn’t he _tried_ to die? And yet the universe denies him! The very Norns must laugh to watch him, laugh at his folly in making the same mistake over and over and _over_ , in letting himself love those that will be lost to him.

Loki screams, feeling his seiðr so hot in his veins it bubbles from his skin, and the earth cracks and gives way beneath him, the very planet crumbling beneath the force of his desperate fury, and he doesn’t _care_ about Sakaar, doesn’t care for the people that have died before his ire, doesn’t care, doesn’t _care_.

What is he to do now?

_You’ve moved on before_ , says a tiny voice in the back of his head, the tiniest voice of all. _You’ve done it before. You can do it again._

“I don’t want to,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse and cracked from the sheer volume with which he has yelled his agony, and he sees his tears drip against the fabric of the Grandmaster’s robes. “I don’t want to any more. _Please_. _Please_.” Who is he begging? Who is left to listen to his pleas?

He knows not.

He cares not.

_What will you do? Die?_

But what is the point in dying, if he will not follow where the Grandmaster has gone? What is the point of dying, when it will only lead to an afterlife? What is the point of dying, when it is already too late?

Loki’s sobs begin anew, quieter this time, and he clutches the Grandmaster all the tighter. Elders aren’t supposed to die. Hadn’t he _known_ that?

Hadn’t he known?

 


End file.
